


Just Dough

by joraerys



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, The Great British Bake Off References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joraerys/pseuds/joraerys
Summary: It’s where it all started, he thinks. With an oven.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 58
Kudos: 29
Collections: Jorleesi Equinox Exchange -Spring 2020





	1. Signature

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladymelodrama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymelodrama/gifts).



> Huge thanks to my beta reader, [makimurakaori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/makimurakaori/pseuds/makimurakaori)!

You know the saying, “a watched pot never boils”? Jorah hopes that’s not the case while he observes his first batch in the oven. Buttercream’s done and for that to be used, the next step is to wait for the puffing up. He backs away a bit from the heat and sits across, with his back to the counter. _It’s where it all started_ , he thinks. With an oven.

* * *

From 12 there was now 11. Gary was the first to go. I spoke to him little, but found him a nice bloke. His strength was this week’s theme: Biscuits, I recalled. Pity. Star Baker was Elena, a bit proud, but very skillful. No use knowing this information though. Must concentrate on the first challenge of creating 24 identical biscotti, of any flavor of our choosing. We got 2 hours. Went for something simple with chocolate and hazelnut to better focus on the measuring and timing of the double-bake.

Had to remind myself to stop looking at Sheryl work. She was right in front of me and the woman was a machine. But I didn't mind the smell coming from her side because of the herbs. Nice and calming. Thought she was going for rosemary. Kamal, behind me, liked to hum as he baked. With me in between the aroma and music, I felt almost no pressure at all. Until I heard a clang from behind. It came from the person beside Kamal, or so I guessed because it was the only counter with a missing person when I looked back. Dany soon appeared, after stooping to get her metal bowl from the floor, saying

“Sorry, everyone! Slippery fingers.”

“Hoo, ya scared me, moppet,” said Rita, with a slight chuckle in her voice as she continued kneading.

“Sorry, Mama. You keep singing, Kamal.”

That made my brow go up, slightly impressed that Dany bonded with a fellow contestant enough to call her by a nickname. Since last week I’d seen and heard her conversing warmly with others before we entered the dreaded Tent. Somehow managing to make them easily share their lives with her. Lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t realize I was the only one left looking at her. She must’ve noticed and looked my way. Gave her a short nod along with the boring polite smile, and went back to kneading myself.

A few minutes passed and I heard a ‘clack-thud’ sound. It repeated twice more, then in quick succession that I didn’t bother to count. One of the hosts, Mel, rushed to Dany’s side. Her oven was jammed.

“Use mine,” I blurted, not knowing what came over me. Frankly, I blamed Kamal’s soothing voice – made me forget where I was.

“I couldn’t possibly- No, I’m sure it’ll be fixed soon,” she replied, that last part said questioningly as she faced Mel with pleading eyes.

“I promise to get you out of this jam,” Mel answered, as she called over co-host Sue and the technical team for help.

Dany’s eyes patrolled to and from her dough and oven. I thought we had enough time, maybe 10-15 mins more oven time considering little to no extra additions, but the panic in her eyes made me come over and ask,

“What are you making?”

“Jackfruit, macademia, and pistachio.”

Jackfruit. Tasted it just once before. Slightly sweet. Uncommon in our continent, even more uncommon in biscotti. Appeared a tad fresh too, as if towel-dried instead of the prune-like consistency of dried fruits. There were chunks of it on her mixed dough. It would need more time in the oven than usual, especially in the second bake, for it to have that crisp. And Dany knew it.

“Offer still stands.”

She pursed her lips and reluctantly agreed. She put one tray in, leaving the other space for me. Urged her to put both her trays in. She did so with the condition that she helps me with something. Couldn’t really put berries or fruits at this point so I decided, more nuts. I asked Dany to prepare a chocolate dip as I crushed almonds.

Sue came by later and said to Dany,

“Happy to announce that your oven is rightfully out of a jam. Though by the look of things,” she faced as me she continued, “I believe it’s your oven now, good man.”

Dany thanked Sue while I proceeded to put my trays in, exhaling deeply when neither’s face was on me. 

We proceeded as normal except for the oven switch, for which Dany and I found ourselves visiting each other’s counters often to check the color. She ended up calling my attention to say that mine were done on the first bake. Gave her my thanks, and not soon after hers were done. 24 slices, second bake, some final touches, and all done.

I did all right in fourth. Still, was glad that the extra plan to add the chocolate and almond dip at the bottom didn’t make the entire thing too sweet. Elijah came in second and was given a handshake by Paul for his cranberry, hazelnut, and white chocolate. As for Dany, well, she won the challenge.

Routine reaction interviews came during our break. Was asked about the oven mishap. Didn’t mention my worry. The camera probably caught it anyway. After I was done, I started to walk a good distance away to admire Welford Park. Hurried footsteps followed behind to reveal Dany.

“What can I do for you, Star Baker?” I teased.

“Nothing. In fact, it’s the other way ‘round.” She held her breath and gave out the next two words as if a weight has been lifted off, “Thank you.” I shook my head as she followed with, “You have to let me repay you. A favorite snack? Tea? Or coffee, I don’t judge. Maybe, an extra pound of flour or suga-”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to, Jorah.”

I tilted my head towards Welford Park’s tearoom, beckoning my acceptance. I refused to remind her that the Great British Bake Off has catering. After a few steps, she asked,

“So, what are you up for?”

“Anything but biscotti.”

She laughed, said,

“Agreed.”


	2. Technical

The smell of books is fascinating, Dany muses. Old books project a memory or a memoir of something longing not to be forgotten, while new ones present both an accomplishment and a chance. It is a new book that will greet her today. She is overly excited that she cannot sit still and decides to come early near the pick-up point earlier than intended.

There’s a café close by where she plans to wait, but not until she gets the sequel to the book she read last year. A block away from the café, she enters a quaint bookshop and finds herself surprised at a neatly stacked set of books that reached her height. She cuts the distance short to the information desk when a teenager whizzes past her, removes a few books at the bottom, and runs for the exit. The book tower collapses. Dany gasps with the three other people in the room. She puts her hand on her mouth, not because of shock, but to hide the grin that formed as she remembered a somewhat similar instance from before.

* * *

We had two bake dates now. At least, that’s what I liked to call them. They were really practice bakes for whatever the theme of the week was. I discovered how analytical Jorah can be, which was why he had been consistent in the Technicals, never being at the bottom three, and even winning a challenge. Because of it, he prided in his ability to the point of being overly competitive in our practices. Had to remind him that the contest was only in the tent, not outside of it. Plus, we were doing different recipes to have the other review one’s work in the end. We found it useful in boosting our skills before the Tent days.

“I’m going with plain flour,” Jorah insisted for the third time, after I advised him to use bread flour for his try at the _religieuse à l’ancienne_ . “I’ve done eclairs before and plain flour at the right bake is sturdy enough.”

“But have you made a mountain of them before?” I asked him.

“Have you?” He retorted.

“No, but I have made a _croquembouche_ before.”

“Cream puffs are easy. You can assemble them like bricks.”

It was his pride that also made him absolutely stubborn.

“Are you doubting my skill?”

 _What if I am?_ was written on his face as he gave me a dominant smile that I wanted to just smack right off him. “Tell you what, for this practice bake, we do the same thing. I bet my Old Nun would stand at least two hours.”

“You’re on.”

He offered me the ingredients I needed and a short while later he began calculatingly dumping plain flour from a bag to a bowl using a measuring cup when I came by and said,

“It’s no contest. It’s an annihilation.”

A pause. From the corner of my eye I saw swift movement from his wrist but was too late in anticipating the fistful of flour bomb he threw on my face. As soon as the shock disappeared, I reached for the poured flour on his counter but he was too quick and blocked my arms. God, he was ridiculously strong stopping me with only half his body, which gave me an idea. I kept his focus on my feeble attempts when I bumped the bottom of his bag with just the right amount of force to make his entire face white.

I guffawed and he gave me a death stare, or so I imagined with his body language since I really couldn’t see his eyes. He burst into a light chuckle, which evolved into a deep laugh that I found quite charming. As mine died down, he was still ongoing, trying to get words in.

“I ca-… my ey-…” I furrowed my brows and shook my head trying to make sense of it, my mouth already forming to reply with _What?_ when he laughed a bit more and I ended up just joining him. He inhaled loudly to cry out,

“I can’t see!”

“Oh! Goodness, okay. Just… follow my lead.”

I took the flour bag from him and guided him to the sink. He told me where the towels were and I took one to wet the tip to rub it on his eyelids. His height didn’t help. I said,

“Face me.”

“Seriously,” he said, not intending it to sound as a question at all.

“Well, just… here.” I placed my hand on his nape and guided his head downward. Gently, I wiped his eyelids, starting with the right. Unintentionally, I began to examine his face. It had some years on it, made even more obvious with the flour, but it still radiated a warmth that shone when he smiled. After the left was also done, I asked, “How’s that?”

He slowly opened his eyes, which easily found mine, and replied, “Good.”

I’d welcome his gaze if I wasn’t suppressing a laughter from him looking like a panda. He must have figured it out when he washed his face in the sink and offered his loo for me to clean myself up, handing me a fresh towel. Best we get on our way too because the Old Nun is no joke. It takes up a whole lot of time, at least four hours. And I wanted the satisfaction of putting it in his face – _once again_.

Two éclair towers stood in Jorah’s flat many hours later. We actually left for an hour after baking to test the endurance and strength of the towers – a short trip to the market to resupply his ingredients. Insisted on paying for half. On our return, he switched the lights to my tower intact and his drooping to the side.

“Your Old Nun’s getting sleepy, there,” I said in a soft voice. He stared gloomily at his creation as it plopped to the table. Continued, “Right. I believe that’s our cue. Good night, Jorah,” and left his flat looking very smug.

Two days later at Technical and we were doing Paul’s Eight-Plaited Loaf, I observed him beside me numbering his strands wrongly during the braiding of the dough. Coughing with just enough noise to get his attention, I pointed at my recipe, the same one given to all of us, a specific step that I think he might have misinterpreted. I tried my best to demonstrate my point without the cameras or anybody else noticing. He was relatively a good actor feigning the occasional look here and there while striving to be attentive to my movements. To signal me that all was understood, he gave me a wink.

Probably shouldn’t have done that as Jorah won Technical again, with me coming in second. But I did receive praise from judges Paul and Mary, and a pun from Mel regarding the actual braid I was wearing. I was elated. Could sense Jorah about to speak out as he didn’t look happy at all when he was announced winner. Placed my hand on top of his and squeezed it to stop him.

Just outside the tent during our break, saw him clenching his jaw while walking towards me. I held a finger up. Said,

“Dinner date. No baking. Your treat. And we’re even.”

He smiles for the first time after his win. Replied,

“Best challenge yet.”


	3. Showstopper

After placing the final choux pastry, Jorah has just gone down the stepladder. He backs away to admire his construction, draining his second cup of coffee. _Mighty_ , he mutters to himself, but it’s not finished yet. Eight piping bags filled with buttercream are ready for the final step. He thinks the number of bags excessive but it makes for fewer trips up-and-down the stepladder to pipe all 5 tiers. Proudly, he wears his improvised ‘baker’s tool belt’ to carry the piping bags among others and replays Bowie on his phone as he begins to create shells with a French star tip on tier 1. He finishes tier 1 easily and moves on to the next when he suffers a muscle cramp, putting a bit more pressure than intended and ending up with an overlarge shell design. Fortunately, his tool belt carries small spoons for fixing such blunders. He scoops up the cream and licks it off the spoon, which lingered in his mouth. He decides to take a small break and stretch in a minute, but not before crossing his arms and leaning behind the counter, wistfully looking at the bowl of buttercream on the side.

* * *

There was pressure every week, more so on the weekends of the competition, so for our bake date on Dany’s flat I agreed with her suggestion to create something light and easy. Odd as it was, baking was also a baker’s calming balm for the nerves. We settled on cheesecake. Just a small one. While I bet that my neighbors and hers were happy enough to be the recipients of our practice bakes for the past six weeks. They could do with a little less sugar for one week.

She was on biscuit duty, and I on the mixture. Cheesecakes are delicate, with the texture needing to be a balanced amount of eggs and whisking, otherwise it could end up too dense or too runny after a trip to the oven.

The biscuit base composed of biscuits and butter she’d prepared on a round pan and placed in the fridge as I finished the first whisking of cream cheese, sour cream, and sugar. She came near to offer adding the eggs in. Three times she faked pouring it in that I gave her a knowing look. She bit her tongue, smiled and bobbed her head down, avoiding my eyes.

Included a few more ingredients in the mixture then added it on top of Dany’s biscuit base. Laid it on the oven, ready to wait over a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and crackers. But Dany was still making something so I went over to inspect. I stood close behind to see her with buttercream and some samples of her piping ability on parchment paper – shells, stars, and flowers, all looking very elegant.

“Pretty,” Now, I don’t doubt her abilities one bit, not after getting to know her these past few weeks. She had won several challenges now and became star baker twice. Coming from nothing, she took everything as an opportunity to learn. To her there was no finish line, just another way to level up. She took that into baking and into her relationships. The more she spent time with people, the more she believed that there was good in them. That sometimes, all they need is a little push in the right direction to become more than they could imagine. However, I do like to tease her because she gets a little defensive in an adorable way, at times getting playfully physical – a slight jab, a flick, a squeeze, or a pinch. It seemed silly, but any touch from her got my heart racing every time. “But is it tasty?”

She falls silent that I thought I’d overstepped. During my unease she had piped a hefty amount of buttercream on my mouth and beard.

“Find out,” she said as she sniggers.

Tasted a smidge with my tongue and closed my eyes before I swallowed.

“Touché.”

I could feel the buttercream slip from my face when I felt Dany’s hand darting to cup my jaw and catch the cream with the curve of her thumb, which now rested on my lips. Call me presumptuous but I thought she’d almost stroke them when she caught herself and cleaned the cream off with her hand. I kept my gaze on her, waiting for eyes to meet me again, as if waiting, hoping her heart was also throbbing in this moment. When she coyly looked back, I leaned in, mouth opening slightly, but paused, remembering how ridiculous I might have looked with scattered bits of buttercream on my beard. My anxiety undone as I felt her lips on mine.

Full, and soft, and sweet, Dany’s lips became my drug. I went slow, and explored their lusciousness, lingering on her bottom lip again, and again. The more I did so, I realized Dany was getting as hungry as I was, not like a child presented with Halloween sweets, but as a future spouse choosing the perfect dishes from a caterer for a wedding, each dish deserving a taste. I opened my mouth to her eager tongue, swirling gradually in one direction, and then another, and another – my own swam with hers in response. It was almost a competition on who was most passionate in maneuvering the shapes of our mouths, and we yearned for more.

The timer went off for the cheesecake, breaking our desires, leaving our billowing breaths harmonizing terribly with the ring of the alarm. In the midst of it all she ended up on the counter, and I had to help her down before checking on the cake. It baked beautifully, but our appetite for it was lost. She completed her piping and we gave it away to her old lady friend one floor down.

As for the competition the next day, our enthusiasm was still very much present. There was five of us left and we had bonded and suffered together on the journey, along with the rest of the contestants. They noticed the closeness I had with Dany – probably even more so when we walked to the Tent holding hands that day – and were supportive to both of us. A few weeks ago, Dany and I promised no help or advice is to be given on challenge days to keep things fair. And so every challenge since we’d just keep it business as usual, until judging was over.

First two challenges were a nightmare for me. Dany breezed through, ranking high. Bizarrely, I wasn’t that upset. Sure, I wanted my showstopper to go excellently and got excited when the theme the next day was animal cakes. I used to carve wooden bears in my 20’s, giving them as toys to my cousins when we didn’t have the luxury to buy them. Tried it once on cake to celebrate my eldest cousin Dacey’s 10th birthday. I thought I got that one in the bag, and it proved so when I earned 3rd place. But then the same drive wasn’t there anymore. In meeting Dany, I already felt a winner.

Tangentially, with her meticulously designed dragon cake, Dany won the round.


	4. Star Baker

The air is cold but it has not penetrated Dany, who is practically skipping now and then as she makes her way to the shop. She holds tight on the satchel, where the handle meets the bag, on every little jump made. There is a line of about fifteen heads as her destination draws near. She greets them _G’morning_ and they greet her happily back. Leading the line, near the front door, is an elderly couple, sitting with cups of tea on their hands. Dany puts a gloved hand on one’s shoulder and whispers to both _Not too long now. Also, you get 10% off for being the first in line three times this week._ She leaves them giddy and enters the shop with her key.

The smell is what always transports Dany. Never mind the shop itself having a quaint ambience or the pleasant sound of the shopkeeper’s bell echoing through the room, the smell lifts her to something she does not want to say goodbye to. She begins to remove her gloves and calls on the other factor that is the epitome of that reason.

“Jorah, what are you making?” She asks him melodiously.

“Come over, love,” Jorah answers.

Dany follows, putting her apron on upon entering the kitchen. She’s busying with the knot when she sees the grandiose _religieuse à l’ancienne_ and eyes it in awe from the cream puffs on top and the alternating dance of dark brown and white eclairs below, a round biscuit separating each tier of carefully, creating a very slim mountain that is decoratively outlined with light yellow buttercream. My attention only distracted by Jorah who appears from the corner of the room.

“Happy anniversary,” he tells me breathily.

Dany’s chest lets out a small puff of air and she smiles, disbelieving at his effort. She faces the baked structure again as Jorah puts his arm around her waist in to stand beside her and look at the same. She wonders how she won Star Baker way back when looking at the extravagance before her now. He tells her,

“They’re our favorites. Bailey’s custard cream and mocha ganache for me, and strawberry cream and white chocolate for you.” She keeps staring at his work when he quips, “I know, I know, fanciest _nun_ you’ve ever seen.”

Her deadpan reaction is what he gets. He adds, as if treading lightly,

“Before you get excited, we both know we cannot possibly consume this so I’m hoping to include it as a promotion today. And in about four hours the nearby shelter will hold dinner early and I told them we can donate. I know how you feel about waste.”

She takes both his hands and tells him,

“Sure, love. Besides I know you made lots of extras.” He blushes in embarrassment. She squeezes his hands, tiptoes, and lightly kisses him. “Before I get even _more_ excited after your proposal…” She releases his hand but takes hold of the other, opening its palm to accept the item that she grabbed from her satchel. A recipe book. _Their_ recipe book.

“Happy anniversary, my sweet bear.”

Jorah is stunned. Too stunned not to notice Dany carry the choux pastry tower carefully out of the kitchen on one side of the long cashier desk so it will be the first thing a customer sees upon entering. After settling it down, she feels Jorah’s arms around her, almost crushing her in an embrace from behind. They savor the intimacy as long as they can; they’ll be busy for the rest of the day.

With the oven hot, the curtains lifted, bread, cakes and pastries prepared, Jorah behind the cashier, and the Old Nun watching over them, Dany flips the hanging sign to ‘Open’ and opens the front door. As the elderly couple enters, she greets them,

“Welcome to JD’s bakery!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe I have never watched a single episode of GBBO until this assignment? Now a fan. Thanks for that! From the baked goods used in the entire story, you can venture a guess on which season I took much inspiration from.


End file.
